Nothing
by Sparkiebunny
Summary: Sam doesn't feel any of it. In fact, Sam doesn't feel anything at all. Tag to "You Can't Handle the Truth".


**AN: Written in about an hour this morning, when I was struck with inspiration. Next week's preview has me floored, and I'm super excited to see exactly what's going on. So I decided to put that excitement into use. Hope you enjoy!**

**Warning: Spoilers for 6x06, "You Can't Handle the Truth".**

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This should upset Sam. He should be feeling his stomach twist in knots. He should get a flare of anger up his spine. Anger at his brother, for not trusting him, for thinking him a monster. Anger at himself, for being a monster, or as close as he could come to one. Anger at the situation, and that damn Winchester luck, for screwing up any good thing that comes along. Sam should have that horrible feeling of loathing and resentment and frustration…Sam should feel that.

He doesn't.

It should make Sam feel overcome with sorrow. The agony of being torn from earth and sent to hell, only to be propelled back again for reasons he couldn't fathom. The wistful glimpses of happiness that always get ripped away from him. The loneliness of bearing a secret even _he_ doesn't understand, and the blatant repression of memories of the Cage. All of this should leave a gaping hole of sadness in Sam. He should be crumbling under the unending depression that his life has generated. Simply said, Sam should be sad. Sam should be inconceivably sad.

He isn't.

There should be panic rising in Sam. His heart rate should pick up, and his darkened eyes should be wild. His brother was out of control. The situation was out of control. Everything had spun out of grasp, and God himself probably didn't know what would happen. Sam should feel a tingle of desperation through his core. He should be freaking out, flipping his lid, losing it. Sam should be panicking, big time.

He's not.

And at the very least, at the crux of the situation, the heart of this muddled mess, Sam should be scared. Dean was obviously at a loss, so who knows what he would do. God, the angels, Lucifer, and nearly everyone else probably wanted him dead, tortured, or worse. Sam himself doesn't know what the hell to do. Why is he back? Who brought him back? Why is it that when faced with tragedy, happiness, fear, or all of the above and more…Sam feels nothing? He doesn't know. That in itself should terrify Sam.

But it doesn't. Nothing does.

His brother had just been holding a knife, ready to kill him, maim him, or do whatever it took to get the truth. Yet it had no true impact on him. He wanted it to. He would give everything to feel angry or sad or panicked or scared or _anything_.

But he doesn't. Sam doesn't feel any of it. In fact, Sam doesn't feel anything at all.

And then, Dean stood there, knife in hand, demanding answers. Answers he rightfully deserved. So Sam told the truth. It wasn't a truth he had planned on revealing, at least not until he got this new, fucked-up reality sorted out. However, he had no choice. So he spilled.

But not because he was upset. Not because he was sad or depressed. Not because he panicked. Not even because he was scared.

No. Sam spilled because it was the logical thing to do. Statistics, odds, probability…

Sam weighed his options. Sam made the most efficient and logical decision.

Sam felt nothing.

And now Sam is lost. Confused. Hopeless.

But even those are emotions not _felt_ by Sam. _Feeling_ them isn't the same as _knowing_ they should be felt. Just as knowing one's lover is beside them is not the same as feeling their warmth. Just as knowing one's family is there for them is not the same as that support being tangibly demonstrated.

Lost. Confused. Hopeless. These are simply manifestations of the logical side of Sam's essence. The side that is telling Sam he should be feeling all these things. And that rationally, the emotions must be there, below the surface. They should be.

But they aren't.

Because Sam can't feel anything.

And now, Dean is upon him, fists of steel crashing into his face, over and over. Just as Sam's hands had done to Dean over a year ago, now Dean's hands returned the pain. This irony does not elude Sam. The flexed muscle and strong bones beat Sam's pliable face. Blood spurts and trickles, bruises begin to form, skin swells and tightens. Dean's fists impact with his face mercilessly, and physical pain registers at the back of Sam's mind. A dulled sting, a deadened throb, a muffled twinge. The ache is constant, the hurt is there, the pain is present.

Yet still, as it's been for over a year, and as (if he could) he fears it will be for the rest of his life…

Sam feels nothing.


End file.
